


So Long and Thanks for All the Reichenbach

by Kahvi



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Dolphins, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>His name was simply John Watson, though he preferred to be called - and some of his friends had now reluctantly agreed to do this - Wonko the Sane.</i><br/>- So Long and Thanks for All the Fish</p><p>There are three people on Earth who know they are not really part of it; Arthur Dent, Fenchurch, and Wonko the Sane, aka John Watson. They have all lost something and long to get it back, though in Wonko's case, it's also a rather specific someone. Or rather, as he was as surprised to learn as anyone, a specific <i>dolphin</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Long and Thanks for All the Reichenbach

It was a quiet sort of mid-morning along the banks of the Thames; the sort you’d expect on a Tuesday in late October, which is what it, in fact, was. Police Community Support Officer Reg Dobbs shifted his weight carefully from one foot to the other, trying to suppress the urge to have a cigarette. There was no reason, part of him insisted vehemently, that he shouldn’t have a fag if he wanted one. _When you were a lad_ , that particular part of Reg Dobbs reminded him, _people had a fag wherever they bloody well liked, and no one was the worse for it_. Reg tried his best to ignore that, too. What he could not ignore, however – and this was in no small part a contributing factor to his wanting a cigarette in the first place – was Police Community Support Officer Patricia Richardson, who had not stopped talking for a full minute. Now, however, she appeared to be winding down. Reg Dobbs turned to her with what he hoped was a look of calm authority. This appeared to have no effect.

“Sir?” She looked up at him with bright, dark brown eyes. “I’m sure it’s him. I’m positive. Down by the river.”

Reg turned his eyes in the direction she was indicating with a nervous shrug. There was a man sitting there, all right; hunched over, barely visible from up here. “No law against that.”

Police Community Support Officer Patricia Richardson’s eyes widened. “But it’s _Sherlock Holmes_ , sir!”

Reg shook his head. “Can’t be.”

“It is, though. Sir.”

Reg sighed. Patricia Richardson was twenty two years old, wore non-regulation nail polish, and had bright pink hair. ‘Magenta’, she had corrected him when he’d questioned her about it, but Reg didn’t see how that made any difference one way or another. How she had gotten the job looking like that was beyond him, but here she was, and Reg had been told it was his job to ‘mentor’ her. _That’s not what they used to call it when you were a lad_ , that particular part of him interjected wistfully, and Reg quietly agreed. She was a nice girl, though. And she tried hard. You couldn’t fault her for that. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said carefully, not unkindly, “is dead. Been dead for months now; it was on the news.” Reg had never understood what all the fuzz was about; he didn’t read _blogs_ , whatever they were, and private detectives seemed like something out of those Agatha Christie novels his wife used to read all the time before she started on Dan Brown. Reg had never really understood all the fuss about him, either.

“Not everyone thinks so. Sir.” Patricia Richardson straightened her back, defiantly. She was wearing make-up, Reg realized, thin lines of light green around her eyes, to match her nails. _Since when did girls do their nails up green,_ that particular part said, but Reg found he was more taken with her attitude than her coloring. “I’ve seen him before. He used to come at least once every month, and he’d sit for ages, just talking.”

“Talking?”

“Yeah, really low. Like, you couldn’t hear what he was saying properly, but he’d go on and on. Didn’t matter what the weather was like; he’d just turn his coat up and huddle closer.”

“Closer to what?”

“To the river, of course! I haven’t seen him for ages, not since they say he died, but that’s _definitely_ him.” She looked back out to the bank, but the figure was gone now, and she said something under her breath; bad language, if Reg was any judge.

“Never mind,” Reg said, trying again for that air of authority. “It’s not our business what people do or don’t do by the river, so long as it isn’t littering or drinking or exposing themselves. He wasn’t doing any of that, was he?”

“No sir, but…”

“I saw the pictures in the paper, same as you did, I’m sure. Sherlock Holmes is dead, no argument.” It had been on TV too; footage from some mobile camera of a man falling off a roof, coat flapping about him like big black wings. Reg had made a Batman joke, and his wife had glared at him. No human being could survive a fall like that. “And even if he wasn't, like I said, it’s no business of ours what anyone does by the river.” A part of Reg, a completely different part to the one who was still complaining about girls these days at the back of his mind, made him ask: “What was he doing, anyway?”

“Just talking, like I said.”

“Talking to himself?”

“No, to the dolphin.”

Reg’s face froze. For once, all of him was entirely in frantic agreement. “A dolphin?”

“Yeah, there was…”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place, you stupid girl! Go and fetch us a Marine Mammal Observation form!”

As Police Community Support Officer Patricia Richardson hurried off back to the Police Community Support car, Police Community Support Officer Reg Dobbs felt the urge to smoke slowly fade away. He smiled to himself, basking in that particular calm that only ever came from the knowledge of a form well selected.


End file.
